Pickled Toad
by Muffliato
Summary: Ginny Weasley doesn't hate fairy tales, but she would hex any who implied she was living one. If a certain Boy Saviour ever stopped being oblivious, he was free to join her in cursing fate. - A collection of completely canon 'anti-love'/unromantic romance stories.
1. Pickled Toad

_"As is a tale, so is life, not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters." ~ J.K. Rowling_

* * *

**Summary:** Ginny Weasley doesn't hate fairy tales, but she would hex anyone who dared imply she was living one. If a certain Boy Saviour ever stopped being oblivious, he was free to join her in cursing fate. ~ Anti-love stories while being totally, completely canon.

**A/N:** This was an interesting piece to write. I'm on the committee of a creative writing society at my uni, and when it was my turn to lead a workshop on free verse poetry I was like, sweet, yay random/chaotic prompts! I then ended up writing fanfics. Is anyone surprised?

This little plot bunny came about when I asked everyone to write an anti-poem. Meaning, people could write a piece of not-horror, not-friendship, not-humour, etc. I decided to do a not-love poem. Then the idea gained sentience and resulted in this crazy mess covering Ginny Weasley's first through sixth years at Hogwarts. Have fun!

**General Disclaimer:** J.K. Rowling, while a lovely poet, is far too much enamoured with end-rhymes. Thus, from even just a stylistic sense, I'm clearly not her. It's cool though if you think otherwise, you can join me in denial!

* * *

_"His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,_

_His hair is as dark as a blackboard._

_I wish he was mine, he's really divine,_

_The hero who conquered the Dark Lord."_

_Singing valentine from "Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets"_

* * *

'His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad–'

it was Fred and George. They were idiots

but no one would believe her denials.

They'd put on sympathetic faces with grins leaking from the corners,

call her precious, adorable, delusional, and oh Merlin

she wished she felt enough like herself to argue.

* * *

But by that time it'd gone too far

and the poem was the last thing on her mind. Instead,

it was crackled eyes flying open, a scream on her lips,

and him–always, always him–reassuring her

while he stood there, drenched in dirt, sweat, blood, red,

a gleaming sword at his side and mystical beasts behind.

* * *

Amidst her joy

(He was gone, gone! No more forgotten scenes, no more

feinted days, crimson and feathers splattered everywhere. Gone Gone GONE!),

irony settled on her chest.

A literal 'knight in shining armour' was a bit too much.

But for the moment she swept it aside for relief,

for sheer happiness which even

the clenching panic of leaving Hogwarts couldn't discard.

* * *

He became Harry. Just Harry.

She'd overheard him regret the impersonalness of it all,

that no one looked behind the hyphenated moniker.

That first summer cured her of it

–after the bedtime stories, awakening shrieks, and elbow in the butter dish–

she noticed he was shier than she

and seemed uncomfortable with the twins' loudness,

her mum's hugs, big meals which clearly churned his stomach,

even while his eyes lit up in confusion at the sweltering love.

* * *

They were Greengreengreen. Acid green.

Like the pulpy flower's blood which oozes from stems.

Not at all like a toad–the twins were blind.

* * *

She shoved these thoughts away; what did it matter that fears

lurked in the back of her mind?

He and she weren't friends, he and she wouldn't be together.

She got it, she did.

Silly childhood crush which

no one would let her forget.

* * *

The diary had cured her of that.

Spilling her heart to Tom had left her clean,

more unblemished than before and leaking with bits of crimson.

But there were no more ridiculous delusions.

* * *

She didn't write the dratted poem,

her mind was preoccupied and possessed at the time.

A certain bushy-haired friend of hers should remember this.

That was the awful thing about the

otherwise brilliant girl:

she could never hear she was wrong.

* * *

And maybe it was cruel (and naive, so silly) of her to think

that accepting a date would erase the pointed looks sent her way.

Michael was a prat, yes, but he was sweet to her,

had no idea about Tom,

and never mentioned a certain boy saviour.

That there was no red or green in any bit of him was a relief.

She had better things to do than dwell on Chang's self-satisfied smile

or crocodile tears.

* * *

Merlin, why wouldn't people stop staring?

It only got worst when he

became a _Prophet _sanctified hero once more.

* * *

Dean was better. More mellow, more happy without motive,

and his smile melted her the first time

she glimpsed it across the Great Hall.

A bit overly chivalrous, but at least he wasn't jealous of her flying.

He at least listened when she explained

of escape, of rushing wind, of soaring higher and faster than anything chasing her could go and–

and he enclosed his lips with hers when she prattled on too long.

* * *

Then he left.

* * *

Not left, she threw him away.

Awfully silly and childish of her, she knew,

but the stares had gotten worse and she hated being spied on.

Harry Potter was many things, but 'discreet'

was not one of them. Especially not with her best female friend

whispering a matchmaking commentary into her ear.

* * *

The staring verged on violent when she was with Dean, so she left.

She was much more at home being single. She knew

where she stood. No need for second-guessing

and looking over her shoulder for stupid smiling boys.

* * *

So then? Then, she flew.

Cascaded, cartwheeled, she hardly cared

and just did. Quaffles, bludgers and snitches blurred

until they were all a mix in the mad wind rushed reality and,

oh god oh god they won! They ended, they landed,

but it was all right for the party would sweep all the fuss away, and there he was

and she couldn't stop flying with excitement into his arms and––

* * *

Oh Merlin.

* * *

No, not now.

* * *

She'd had ages, months, years really,

what were a few more? Just a few, that was all she asked.

For he, with his beam amidst the cat-calls,

the strong arms around her weighted shoulders,

a lingering taste on her puckered lips of treacle tart–

of a fake smile stretched across her teeth.

* * *

What was she supposed to say?

She hadn't meant anything. Not really.

* * *

For Harry Potter didn't love.

She'd known it for years, sealed her heart

as soon as she glimpsed Tom behind his killing curse eyes.

* * *

Ginny Weasley didn't love.

Not even for one whose boyish, uncertain smile could dig into her heart,

who tried to hug with warmth and protection,

who understood the need for escape,

who looked at her as though there was no one else in the world–

* * *

"Yes."

The word felt hot, sticky.

* * *

She stayed outside far longer than him,

dreading returning to the interrogation in her dorm

far more than being caught out after curfew.

* * *

They were together.

It didn't feel true, not especially,

for she hadn't been a princess for years (if at all)

and he was mesmerised by the happily ever before they'd even begun.

The only time she surfaced for air was at the funeral:

"I'm sorry," he kept mumbling, fingers nettling his hair,

"I'm so sorry."

* * *

For the first time, she finally wanted to kiss him. The noble git.

Relief spiralled between her knowledge that she was the one

who should be saying those words.

* * *

He was gone.

Gone gone gone, just like Tom.

But there was little dizzying joy for,

for once and only,

she wished she could be kicked out of Hogwarts.

* * *

Of _crucios_, torture, red red red,

burning, sweltering around the _Dumbledore's Army, Still Recruiting_;

of a molten heart starting to freeze.

She never listened to Potterwatch, always too busy helping Neville and Luna.

Then Neville. Just him.

Always 'Just Neville'; no hyphens needed.

* * *

Still a hero.

Not a silver lighted one with a dark interior

burning bright at the touch.

A normal one. A kind one, hugging her

without hesitance. One she dreamt of

without even knowing.

* * *

Shame he was head over heels with Hannah.

They were both single

(Merlin, she was tired of repeating this over and over,

wanted to hex any who gave her knowing smirks).

* * *

Then? End to rumours, of constant Death Eater glares,

getting jolted out of bed, wand thrust into her hand as she's dragged

towards all that she'd never required.

* * *

All three were half-starved.

Ron was as freckly as ever,

Hermione was ignoring the burn across her arm, and he?

* * *

He doesn't look like a would-be conquerer. He?

He's even more of a scared little boy than he'd been in the Chamber.

His eyes are a murky, dead green,

–dark as a blackboard–

no shining armour any longer and, and she should be happy for the latter.

And she was ... until he spotted her

and there appeared a veil of several sunlit days, tranquility they'd never seen.

She's only just able to catch the cue thrown at her

and send Luna (Safesafesafe!) instead of the eager girl

with gulping tears surely at the ready.

* * *

The battle isn't like a fairy tale.

It isn't supposed to be, she knows,

but has a nagging feeling that she isn't supposed to be sick

at the sight of an 'enemy' falling down the stairs,

green light fading behind.

* * *

It's chaotic, horrible, and she remembers none of it.

She's told she fought bravely: these being the same people

still convinced she's madly in love and a poet at heart.

A foolish, stupid girl who always forgets.

* * *

Then there's Harry. Just Harry.

And she remembers this.

* * *

Lying still, cold and dead in Hagrid's arms

(Like Fred, a part of her mind whispers in reminder. She curses it to bits and pieces

and all's blissfully silent)

everything is quiet except for the scream.

* * *

Wait. No, that's her.

* * *

Why is she crying?

Why are her shrieks puncturing the air more than

Ron, Hermione, and McGonagall combined?

It shouldn't–no he's, he's gone.

* * *

He's gonegoneGONE.

She should just shut up, stay quiet,

wake up. Get out of this nightmare!

Out of the Chamber, away from the curling snake

and smoking diary and Tom laughing over her love's body.

* * *

Wake up! Stop being a stupid little girl,

the basilisk's still there and you're staring at it,

always staring like the people you hate so much.

* * *

Tom's here, stop screaming and fly and fight and dodge

and run the hell away before any can catch you!

Don't listen to the so useless and stupid words;

the shining hero's gone, which means there was never a story.

* * *

But you knew that, didn't you?

You always did. It was no secret,

everyone has been whispering it in your ears.

For the damsel in distress isn't supposed to be haunted,

Prince Charming never learns to love just for someone who can't look at him,

and the villain never lurks within the hero

living day by day unseen,

before pouncing until all that's left is the blasted red.

* * *

No. Wait, it's always been green.

* * *

Just like the curse soaring towards her mum;

the colour's distorted from what it should be, and is the perfect shade of pickled toad

(Fred would have laughed, he would).

Then it all comes to a screeching halt with a shout.

* * *

This time? It's not her who's screaming.

For she has always been red.

* * *

He's green.

But not anything even remotely like the poem any more.

As Harry pivots to face Tom (stunned, like them all),

she catches a glimpse of his eyes.

* * *

They aren't emerald, no longer flashing with subdued magic and crimson fire.

They're the shade of lily pads

(Which softens his face, makes him the boy he never was,

lightens the weight that has forever held him tightly,

gets rid of the blasted hero,

makes him utterly kissable).

* * *

She barely knows what was said.

It's a sweep of sounds, wands, bright colours,

and an anti-climatic ending.

* * *

Tom's gone, gone, gone.

* * *

She doesn't feel like rejoicing.

All she knows is that the dead pounds are now on her shoulders,

and she could cry on mum forever and ever.

Her thoughts are a whirl

(FredRemusTonksFredColinLaven derFredohgodGeorgeandwhycan'tthescreamingstop),

but she somehow notices him.

* * *

He looks even more exhausted than she feels.

More lost than when he'd arrived (wind rushed and starved) in the Ford Anglia,

more tired than the nights after Dumbledore

where he'd gaze when he thought she didn't notice,

more damaged than he'd been

with the too-heavy sword buckling his twelve year old frame.

* * *

He wasn't a knight in shining armour.

Not anymore.

* * *

Now? Now, they had ages.

Not months nor years, not moments rushing by without her noticing.

Both blemished, both twisted into tangled knots,

both perhaps a little bit in love.

* * *

And maybe (just maybe if she wished hard enough)

it would be like a fairy tale.

* * *

Once the dawn was clear, the weights swept away,

they could fly ever and ever and no one would catch them for they'd be

gone Gone GONE.

* * *

But who really knew these days; what's coming would come.

Yet as she left her family, crawled up to the Gryffindor dorms,

and exhaustedly lay beside him–

she knew it would be wonderful.

* * *

He, asleep but clearly just Harry

(and maybe perhaps _her_ Harry),

felt the new warmth and pulled her into a hug.

There was no flinch. No hesitation.

* * *

She gave a tired though real smile.

Plucked his glasses off.

Leaned into his touch.

* * *

For it was like someone else's life.

* * *

**A/N:** To think this started out as a shortish idea! My original plot bunny was, "Omgomgomg, Ginny was in a loveless marriage because she was screwed up and couldn't say no to a boy hero who was that damaged and Holy Merlin this could totally be canon OMG!" But then this happened and the ending decided to write itself. So it's not really actually an anti-love poem, just an unromantic romance, and my muse sucks for making me write cheesy fluff. And always fluffy H/G! I'm not even a fan of that ship, but I can't get myself to write anything else. Apparently my subconscious is trying to tell me something *rapidly drafts an H/Hr story in frantic denial*

I blame Harry. As much as I love tragedy, I just can't make him miserable or dose him with amorentia. Le sigh.


	2. Furry Little Problem

**A/N:** 'Pickled Toad' was originally a one-shot, until I had so much fun writing it that I had to continue. Doing a poem from Harry's POV seemed like a clear next step, but didn't strike me as right. Most of the problem is that we _do_ know his opinions from canon and it'd be difficult to reinterpret them. So I thought, hang on a sec, why not do a number of 'anti-love' poems? A series of unromantic romances?

For while I think love is absolutely amazing, I've always hated the idea of instantly falling heels over head. You can have 'lust at first sight', but love? Love is meaningful in a slow fall from 'best mates' to 'rest of my life', or _after_ a couple overcomes obstacles (and lions and tigers and dragons, oh my!) to get to a happily ever.

Thus, this. Featuring the lovely Nymphadora Tonks.

An enormous "THANK YOU!" to my amazing beta, spellmugwump97!

**General Disclaimer:** The amazing J.K. Rowling would not have forgotten to make jokes about Tonks' name until the very end. So, nope, I'm unfortunately not her. Shame, that.

* * *

She met he by knocking him to the ground.

* * *

Though, it wasn't just a stumble:

never let it be said she did anything by half.

If she was going to trip on a troll-leg umbrella stand

she would do it properly and give a man a concussion.

* * *

This also wasn't where she 'met' him at all, just the first she could remember.

She could vaguely recall turning Remus' hair blue, and old photos had long assured her

that she'd been a bubblegum pink demon for her cousin and friends to babysit.

* * *

From his expression when catching sight of her

(Merlin did he look cute bewildered,

sprawled on 12 Grimmauld Place's floor while she cursed up a storm),

he remembered this as well.

* * *

Or maybe that was the bang to the head speaking.

Either one, she supposed.

Or the awkwardness of her Great Aunt shrieking insults from the portrait.

* * *

Good ole Mad-Eye plumped in,

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"d in the poor man's ear,

gave her an exasperated glance,

and plopped on away to the meeting.

Her cousin couldn't stop barking with laughter for hours,

and she was certain the dratted twins had photographic evidence.

* * *

He, recovering, had enough tack not to mention

that she was glowing like a ripe tomato

(stupid rainbow colours which had a life of their own),

and asked if she was okay. He actually sounded concerned.

She felt a prickle of relief

that both head wound and blue hair had been forgiven.

* * *

It was cute. It was nice.

* * *

Then reality set in as they were swept to the meeting

(with half-hidden clues, prophecies, a hidden 'not-really-cold' war,

and Dumbledore's twinkling smile making her instincts stand on high alert).

* * *

She stayed late for a cuppa with her cousin

(the relative her mum had bemoaned, cursed at, cried while disowning him;

who had spent twelve years in nightmares for no reason).

'Catching up', he said.

She smiled, didn't disagree, and didn't comment on how

his roguish grin never met his eyes.

She swallowed, for once in her life hating the taste of chai.

* * *

Most of her relatives despised her on sight,

so for him to idly ask about 'Andy' gave her a start.

It was a moment before she connected the name with mum.

Words flowed from her about her parents: _Yes, they'd love to have you over._

_No, mum never believed a thing against you, course not,_

_don't be daft you silly git. But you? Are you getting treatment?_

* * *

He waved away her questions.

This should have concerned her, but it reminded her of old Siri too much

(who'd give her piggy back 'flying' lessons,

taught her that gaining an elephant's trunk was great fun,

and would yell at Cousin Cissy for scowling at her 'improper breeding and appearance').

She instead smiled in rememberance.

* * *

Her hair turned black.

* * *

He swallowed the rest of his drink in a gulp

before surfacing with a grin

(She spotted his flash of pain. Black changed to turquoise).

"You know Harry's coming soon? My godson?"

He asked, pride in place;

she didn't mention it'd been noted half a dozen times

throughout the evening. She nodded.

* * *

He loved the boy, that was obvious,

yet he couldn't stop going on about his Quidditch skills and bravery.

Which was all well and good,

but the fact that he didn't seem concerned

for knowing nothing else about him was a bit–startling.

Horrible, actually.

* * *

Hell, _she_ likely knew more about the boy-who-lived.

Charlie had been amazed that Harry Potter was so down to earth,

and had told her why on enough of their pub nights

before he escaped back to Romania or who knows where.

* * *

Or who, but she didn't dwell on that.

She didn't think about what the nights drinking with her friend often led to,

and exactly why he always rushed off afterwards.

* * *

She turned back to the conversation.

He was still regaling her with a blow-by-blow account

of one of his godson's matches,

('Get help. For you or Harry. For me,

for mum so she'll finally forgive you. Please.'

Was at the edge of her lips, words she would never speak).

* * *

It was a relief when he changed the topic to tease her.

Normally comments about her clumsiness were taboo

(Whispers swept by her ears, 'How is _she_ an auror?'

Scowls followed her down corridors,

'Slept her way up the ladder. What else?'

She most definitely hexed them and most definitely didn't cry),

but here? Now?

She couldn't bring herself to care.

* * *

Just smile, nod, give out the token protest that,

"He's as old as you! Old enough to be my dad."

So that he'd become indignant and even more shadows would fade.

* * *

"Oi! We're young." He whined, sounding dog-like,

and she wished he had trusted her enough to show her his form.

"The transformations just takes a lot out of Remus.

You try going through that every month!"

* * *

The statement caught up to her thoughts,

her detective-trained mind quickly connected the dots.

She schooled her expression into a neutral one.

* * *

If the 'catch-up cuppa'

(drat Siri and his names)

was over soon after that, what be it.

* * *

So what if she later collapsed on her bed

(blocked out the dull ache in her thigh from their collision),

closed her eyes tightly as drifts of muggle London's night

cascaded about her, lurching her form in its crackling mist.

* * *

A werewolf.

Damnit.

* * *

She let reality come back,

banished away the first bits of thoughts and longing

which had appeared when she first (not really) met him.

* * *

His cool chocolate eyes, tranquil smile, slight twitch of a smirk

when she'd exchanged sarcastic remarks with Snape–

not even a crush.

Nope, not at all. Barely a twinge of an idea

that she'd never dated significantly older than her before,

and she was due another rebound from the

on-and-off (off off off)

relationship with the commitment-bewildered Weasley.

* * *

A werewolf.

* * *

Never mind then.

Too old for her anyway.

* * *

Her hair turned to a short, stormy brown.

* * *

She sighed, curled into a ball,

told herself she didn't care or give a damn,

and reasoned that she should get to sleep.

* * *

She was exhausted the next day.

Mad-Eye was oddly understanding of her fudging an interview,

but Robards was in a right foul mood.

That this had to do with her spilling coffee on him

(blasted Ministry memos getting in her line of sight)

was quite likely, but maybe he was just a git.

She still couldn't believe he'd been in Hufflepuff,

and was positive he managed to slither his way in.

* * *

Kingsley slipped her a note at lunch.

She took far too many precautions before reading it,

but was happy to note that, yes, she was correct

that the many James Bond marathons with her dad would eventually

come back to haunt her.

* * *

She tucked it within her case file before gaily

streaming towards a free cubicle with security charms pre-attached.

Only then did she take it out,

(glancing over her shoulder,

and why did she feel like a double agent?)

and was severely disappointed at the short message.

* * *

"Meet on Tuesday, normal place." Great.

Was it too much to ask to be Agent 007 just once?

Or perhaps the femme fatale. Yes, much more her style.

An exotic, fleeting little whiff of a woman,

with dusty bronze hair, dancer's body, and a seductive smile.

* * *

Maybe the classic blonde bombshell;

cleavage bursting from the dress robe, ruby red smile on her lips,

and with a risqué secret just waiting to be discovered.

* * *

Not the girl-next-door, the rowdy tomboy who made everyone laugh.

She knew all too well that _that_ never worked.

Shame.

* * *

There weren't even any ravenous missions for the Order.

She wasn't sure what she'd expected;

joining a quasi-legal association with a heart of gold

had been too much to resist.

* * *

It wasn't that she was bored sick of paperwork. Not at all.

* * *

On the second meeting she tripped again.

Only after did Sirius apologetically (while still laughing, that git)

admit that his mum had cursed the thing for every disowned Black.

She wasn't pleased and turned the daft man into a poodle for the rest of the day.

Lupin couldn't stop giggling.

She tried to smile, but couldn't get the idea of a monster

out of her head.

* * *

The third time, she side-stepped the cursed leg

and didn't talk to the Marauders the whole night.

Lupin caught her staring and frowned.

* * *

She forgot the fourth time

(overtime shifts, unanswered messages to Charlie, and working two jobs was taking its toll)

and trampled on top of little Ginny Weasley, pulling Hermione Granger down with her.

Amidst the apologising on all sides, a quick hexing of laughing stupid boys,

and a celebratory nip of chocolate cake and turning noses into dog snouts,

the three became friends.

* * *

Not immediate friends, but the meetings occurred often enough

that by the time June rolled into July,

she was actively matchmaking Ron and Hermione,

hugged Molly like her own mum (who she should really call,

she would, soon, in time),

and trading prank secrets with Ginny to get back at her brothers

(if she threw in something special for Charlie, who was to know).

* * *

She'd always wanted sisters,

and between Order missions and new acquaintances

she never had to face the elephant in the room.

* * *

For she was many things, but blind was not one of them.

She knew Lupin was as observant as they came

and the thought that he too avoided her with grim resignation crawled at her insides with guilt.

* * *

She was, on the other hand, brave and –unlike Gryffindors–

wasn't proud enough not to apologise while facing a problem head-on.

Not when Siri kept sending her looks of anger only seen

when he was kicking Kreacher out of yet another meeting.

* * *

For a conversation she'd been dreading, it was rather short.

Lightly tugging Lupin away into the kitchen

(kept her hand on his ragged jacket).

She could hardly meet his eyes.

* * *

"I'm sorry." She mumbled out, blinking away her shame.

She didn't know what had come over her,

the girl who'd always been for equal rights,

insisting that society's treatment of so many people and beings was cruel and unusual.

* * *

But she'd never met a werewolf before.

It had always been a word, a picture on a page,

a being who–in the abstract–you could pity,

while in reality you should scream and run and fly for the hills.

* * *

"It's all right."

His sigh and acceptance

(no moral condemnation, no argument, no anger)

was what made her finally meet his eyes.

* * *

"What?" The syllable burst from her before she could think it,

knocking Lupin back in surprise at her fiery demeanour.

"No, it's not 'all right'! You should be furious at me!"

* * *

"But I–" His expression crinkled with confusion.

She swallowed her guilt and resurfaced with anger.

* * *

"But nothing!" She wasn't sure why she was upset,

just knew that his acceptance of her apology was horrible, terrifying,

and so utterly screwed up.

"Why don't you hate me!"

* * *

He glanced around the cluttered kitchen,

panic finally etched in his face.

"It's not that big a de–"

* * *

"Yes it IS!" She cried, not giving a damn who heard.

"Don't you understand? I thought, I viewed you as a,

a monster! And you just stood there,

accepting every, every..." she dwindled off,

breathing heavily and urging herself not to cry.

* * *

He eyed her cautiously,

her words rolling off him from long practice.

"Are you okay?"

* * *

She let out a groan. "You daft git.

Don't accept my apology, all right? Just,

just don't. Don't you dare."

* * *

"What?"

* * *

But she was already nodding, agreeing with her laid out plan.

"Yes, right, from now on you hate me until I properly

make up for ignoring you."

* * *

"What?" His question ringing with blatant confusion made her pause.

She properly looked at him for the first time (truly, the first:

every crease, every laugh line, every brown hair sprinkled with grey,

every oddly desirable spot on his worn lips).

It'd been realisation of her horribleness which had fuelled this indignation,

pity rather than friendship, but now?

* * *

Drat it, his bewilderment made him look so much like a boy.

And when she properly looked, examined him while the pause grew,

she was disgusted with herself for having ever

(evereverever) seen a monster.

* * *

"Tonks?"

* * *

She continued to stare in shock.

Not at him, not really, just at her delusions being broken.

For she'd always been proud of her observation,

proud she understood her feelings so well

as compared to the emotion-repressive aurors,

proud to know exactly where she stood.

* * *

Then, after all that

–the hexing, arguing she deserved everything she had,

that she was a Black and a Tonks and a good woman–

to find out she was blind?

* * *

She shook her head,

her hair cascading into light brown in her denial.

"Never mind. Look, you hate me. Are we clear?"

"No." He frowned. "I don't hate you."

* * *

"You're going to." Her frown would send criminals running.

"Not forever, mind you. Just 'til I make it up."

Her expression lightened. "I'm sorry. So so sorry.

I don't, I don't think of you that way Remus.

I was stupid, but I do like you. I'll just prove it,

then you can like me too. Right, perfect.

Glad we agree."

* * *

He continued staring, bewildered.

Poor bloke.

* * *

She rolled her eyes,

snorted about oblivious Gryffindors,

and went on her way with a new spring in her step.

She didn't trip this time.

* * *

The meetings changed.

For the first few she went out of her way

to chat to Remus, sit by him every moment she could,

and become determined to see him laugh.

Siri's scowl lifted, and the indignation from the kids

(that she hadn't even noticed, Merlin)

all but disappeared.

* * *

The next batch of meetings was even nicer

for she was no longer trying so hard and all the smiles were genuine.

So nice were they that, at times, she could forget about Charlie,

she actually visited mum, caught up with dad,

and spent some of her boring auror guard work practicing

changing her nose. Robards scowled,

but her friends' laughs were worth it.

* * *

They were friends.

All of them, and it was amazing.

She knew that Remus was still guarded around her,

but his defence was even harder around most of the Order

so she took it as a positive.

Her cousin had lost his scowl,

brightening whenever they were over, lifting the cheer from the haunted house.

* * *

"Wotcher!"

* * *

She finally met Harry Potter.

It was easy to tease the kid, simple to wind him up,

and she was awarded with a nice bright flush for her efforts.

Her amusement was almost enough to banish her unease

from the too-clean Surrey home and his ragged appearance.

Almost.

* * *

Back at Headquarters–after the meeting, after the screaming debacles–

Remus, with a tired glint, insisted on calling her 'Nymphadora'.

She was torn between hitting and hugging him.

Sirius, that berk, laughed in the corner

while Mrs. Weasley had a lecture for childish behaviour

at the tips of her lips.

* * *

She settled for punching the git for teasing her,

then leaning into his touch for the same.

* * *

He was surprised to find a metamorphmagus in his lap

but at least didn't push her off.

Sirius' snorts were cut short; he and the rest made a quick exit.

* * *

Remus shifted underneath her. She didn't particularly care

and considered mentioning that he'd make a rather good pillow.

So she did.

Apparently, this was a good way to make a Marauder speechless.

* * *

Her hair turned pink.

For maybe all those falls had done something to her head:

she loved the noble, oblivious git.

* * *

Blast her luck, forget the danger,

and screw his furry little problem.

* * *

**A/N:** I have a few more ideas of which 'anti-love' poems I'd like to write, but any suggestions would be incredible!

Reviewers are so totally awesome that they don't even need red vines :D


	3. Enough Adventures

**A/N:** And Harry! Figuring out how to write this chapter was tricky. I couldn't look at Harry's thoughts within books 1-7 since we actually know his thoughts. So I figured, fine, I'll do a post-final battle thing. But the same problem popped up: Harry is Harry. We know how he's going to react, and it would take something completely insane for his basic feelings to transform. So that's when this idea popped into my head. Since "Deathly Hallows"' final chapters were filled with insane things, any one of them could have–while sticking with canon–significantly shifted Harry's inherent persona.

Though I love Harry, I've always hated his personality. His reactions seemed completely unrealistic. Though he had a few nightmares, he was hardly as traumatised as he should have been. Since it was a children's series, every mention of horrific events were glossed over and Harry barely gave them a second thought. For example, between _just _the years of childhood abuse and killing a person at eleven, he should have needed intensive therapy.

Luckily, there's a scar-horcrux-shaped loophole to explain all of this wonderful angst. Enjoy!

**General Disclaimer:** Since I've pretty much rewritten Harry's basic personality/impressions, it should be obvious that I'm not Rowling. Such a pity.

* * *

_"But you can make a brilliant Patronus!" protested Ron, when Harry arrived back at the tent empty handed, out of breath, and mouthing the single word, dementors._

_"I couldn't . . . make one." he panted, clutching the stitch in his side. "Wouldn't . . . come." […]_

_"Of course!" cried Hermione, clapping a hand to her forehead and startling both of them into silence. "Harry, give me the locket! Come on," she said impatiently, clicking her fingers at him when he did not react, "the Horcrux, Harry, you're still wearing it!"_

_She held out her hands, and Harry lifted the golden chain over his head. The moment it parted contact with Harry's skin he free and oddly light. He had not even realised that he was clammy or that there was a heavy weight pressing on his stomach until both sensations lifted."_

_From 'The Goblin's Revenge', "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows"_

* * *

He had always been good at seeing.

* * *

Not any of that Inner Eye rubbish

(he'd be used as target practice if he ever claimed that;

Hermione was brilliantly scary at times),

and his actual eyes were less than phenomenal

(what he'd do to wear muggle contacts.

Shame the thought of poking his corneas with plastic

made him wonder how, exactly, Moody lost his eye.

'Undercover auror mission' his arse;

Ron bet a badly placed _accio_, Hermione suggested splinching,

but he took pride in the creativity of his answer).

* * *

Yet, he was good at _seeing_. Observing.

Things just came together in his head–

intermingled, intertwined,

and while he wasn't the group's genius, more often than not he'd bound ahead

raving about an epiphany and, "It all makes sense!"

* * *

Just like the exhilaration of spotting a Snitch.

Because, even when his friends contemplated dragging him to St. Mungo's,

he was usually right.

* * *

Almost always, actually

(he'd likely be hit for saying that too),

so it wasn't that surprising when he spotted this.

Sure, he'd always been hopeless when it came to girls,

but a puzzle? Something that didn't fit?

He'd solve it–maybe not immediately, but soon enough.

* * *

So maybe it took him a bit longer this time.

A few years, give or take. Three or sixteen. What of it?

* * *

He could blame the war, blame Voldemort,

blame the Dursleys, blame the wizarding world,

and especially blame the dratted horcrux.

It didn't matter at the end. So what if he'd been blind?

* * *

All that mattered was the flickering out of sleep,

a startling ache over every inch of his body

(tearing at his mind, lost names vehemently swirled,

a hurricane only he could see)

and an unfamiliar nagging in his thoughts, a scream

at the edge of recollection–he shook it off

(a flicker of confusion: Hogwarts? His dorm?

Blood and dirt and everything everyone was gone and finished.

He'd done it, but shouldn't it feel more wonderful?)

and rolled over onto a soft body.

* * *

He twisted back in panic. The blur that was Ginny didn't stir.

* * *

Checking to see that the bed curtains were firmly latched,

his rapid heart beat faded as he gazed at her.

Closely though, this time,

not like the glances he'd stolen the frantic night (morning?) before.

* * *

She'd lost weight. Maybe not as much as he

but her messy red hair was tangled about her sharp cheekbones,

cuts splayed her face, and a nasty one at her hairline would likely scar.

There was redness, shadows, and concaves around her eyes.

* * *

She was gorgeous, still.

He couldn't imagine her being otherwise.

But this wasn't the same beauty he'd pictured for so many months,

(gazing at the map, struggling to take in last breaths

as the hushed forest loomed before him,

panic erupting on the camping trip and his final stroll.

He had dreamt of going home?

He should be more careful of what he wished for)

not really.

* * *

He blinked, shifting his gaze to the top of his bed,

ignoring his quickening breath.

* * *

It didn't look like it should.

Not surprising, considering his short-sightedness and lack of glasses,

but he knew how the bed was supposed to look.

The stitched crimson, gold, and bronzed wood was still there,

but the colours were more vivid than he remembered.

More there. More real.

Yet, it was definitely his. It hadn't changed that much.

* * *

He shook his head.

It'd been almost a year since he'd been here or seen Ginny,

of course his recall was a bit off. But–

* * *

–he hesitated, thinking back to last night. Early morning.

Of the glorious sounds and shapes and sheer magic

spread through the Great Hall like wind rushed, squawking birds.

Even with the scattered dead, it had seemed remarkable

(clenched his thoughts tight against this, banished them away, farfarfar.

But the pain doesn't recede like its always done before,

doesn't become a dull ache. It's a harsh wound,

battering at his eyelids––and why can't it be gone.

It had always disappeared!

Gone _gone_ _GONE_. Poof. No feeling, no need).

* * *

He hadn't considered his enflamed senses;

assumed anticipation, the adulation of being alive,

taking breaths, feeling the air swish around him and know

(intrinsically, inherently, hopefully)

that he had months, years, ages.

* * *

But shouldn't it have worn off by now?

* * *

Back in the dorm, he scrubbed harshly at his eyes

(even this feeling felt heightened,

scratching rough and so hard that it hurt and blazed).

No, he was being stupid;

near death (actual deathdeathdeath) experiences meant

the rules were thrown out the window. Right?

And with so many people–gone–of course he'd want to cry.

* * *

Wait, no.

He was crying.

* * *

Shaking and clenching back a scream and

why hadn't he noticed this earlier? It had only been a nagging,

but no, it was unreal, like he was feeling too much.

Bursting with emotions and pain and,

damn it!

Ginny didn't look right.

* * *

She wasn't right.

Nothing felt the same and it was too bloody much!

* * *

Once he was aware of his howl, he couldn't keep it in.

Then she was there, holding him tightly

and whispering something or other–but it was like his ears were working too much

for everything was loud shouts and he couldn't understand!

Everything was supposed to be better,

utterly freaking perfect,

but he was gasping for air that he couldn't suck in fast enough.

Why couldn't she see? This wasn't right!

* * *

He was alone for a moment (with just the screams and shouts and

why couldn't they be gonegone_gone_)

before she was rushing back with a crowd of colour and worried noises.

Ron tried to shove them out again, Neville ran for someone,

Ginny and Hermione were shouting questions about what was wrong

if anything had changed,

if he'd been hit–

* * *

"_Avada kedavra_." He gasped out; it felt too loud,

too much like a cannon (with Hagrid nowhere to be seen).

Ron started cursing (loud loud LOUD),

Hermione for once wasn't stopping him

and the only way to get him to stop was to make them understand and–

"Hor-horcrux," the explanation scrambled out, "in, in the scar."

* * *

The next stage

(longer than a parsley few moments, but not ages upon ages)

was cluttered with hospitals, questions, tests,

potions and spells, anxious friends and healers.

He wasn't allowed to see a paper, but could guess well enough

and didn't want to know whatever new nickname they'd crafted

(he supposed it'd be better than 'Undesirable Number One'),

and really he was too tired–too blinded by this new world–to care.

* * *

Eventually he got an answer.

And, like hearing in the Pensieve that he was to die,

he wasn't shocked at the truth:

* * *

There was nothing wrong with him.

* * *

Not now at least,

but there had been something horrible in his head for sixteen odd years,

and apparently a horcrux was much like a dementor.

* * *

They already knew this

(the trio was well aware of the downfall of lockets and journals).

Knew that touching one would keep

happy thoughts at bay, patronuses locked up tight;

seeping magic repressing brightness, colours and sounds until

all that remained was numb resentment.

* * *

But the thought that _every_ soul piece

(stained by the darkest magic; the boogeyman festering in nightmares)

would likewise sap away feelings (positive, negative, what did it matter),

destroying awareness until–

* * *

He was lucky it hadn't been so much worse.

* * *

The healers shook their heads at the horrified expressions.

Explained that if the horcrux hadn't been 'accepted',

if it had instead leeched away only happy emotions…

* * *

Hermione (who had faced a troll, Fluffy, cornish pixies, hippogriffs, dementors, a werewolf,

an eavesdropping beetle, giant toad, slimy Slytherins, Death Eaters, Snatchers, Lestrange, goblins, dragons,

Voldemort) fainted.

Ron only just caught her

(his porcelain white face made the freckles glare. He stared at his brother,

denial stretched across his features).

* * *

Ginny didn't say a word. Her hug became tighter.

* * *

There wasn't anything wrong with him.

* * *

There was no cure, no potion,

he was now right as rain;

he just hadn't realised he'd been missing something.

* * *

But damn it, this was so loud! Not sound itself,

just every blasted thing he felt and it was as though, if he stopped biting his lip,

he would scream for weeks, months…years.

* * *

His friends were amazing, but he didn't know why because

it was _Fred_ who wasn't there. Their actual family. That was the problem,

not him. So what if it hurt? He could deal with it. He could handle it.

He always had.

He was bloody well fine.

* * *

It was easy to turn from the pitying stares,

ignoring Mrs. Weasley's flashed hurt with stubbornness.

Just a few breaths more. He'd be right as rain.

* * *

"Harry," Hermione braved time and time again,

"we need to talk. Tell me what's wrong, how you feel."

Always the same answer: "Nothing's wrong."

always the same answering frown.

* * *

Ron took a more dramatic approach. "Talk. Now."

Shoving him onto the bed at the week's end

where he'd been avoiding the lot of them like the plague.

* * *

"You're mental." He tried to struggle out but, blimey,

when'd he get so strong?

* * *

"Bloody hell." Ron was even more desperate than Hermione.

"I'm not losing another brother because you're a stubborn git!

Talk. Now."

* * *

"Nothing to talk about.

Everything's fi–"

* * *

"If you finish that word," he spoke through clenched teeth,

not relinguishing his hold, "I'll hex you and steal

Veritaserum from the tw–George.

You aren't okay! You heard what the healer said."

* * *

"I'm not deaf." Harry humphed and, yes,

he was about as far from 'fine' as could be.

He wished this talk could be quieter.

* * *

"You're a noble idiot." Ron agreed,

finally letting him go but sitting at his side.

"We aren't blind, and mum's going mental with worry.

What aren't you telling us?

How much was the, the horcrux–err–'repressing'?"

* * *

The words were sticky in his throat.

"A lot." He finally managed, turning his head away,

staring blankly at the far-too-bright orange wall

(at least the ridiculousness of that was still the same).

* * *

"Hermione's been–" it was Ron's turn to hesitate,

"–you know her, constantly making theories."

* * *

"Which are always right."

* * *

"Yeah, just 'bout." He felt the lanky boy shift.

"She reckons that the, the deaths are catching up to you?"

* * *

"'The deaths'?" Harry almost laughed,

and maybe that was when he knew something was wrong.

"Colours are blinding, feelings about,

damn it, _everything_ are coming up from nowhere–

which is strangling as hell and, and this, this is what everyone feels?!"

His voice was panicked by the end,

his eyes turned away from his friend.

* * *

He heard a low exhale of breath and a murmur.

"Ginny was right then. Should've figured."

* * *

"What?" He twisted around in confusion.

* * *

"Ginny. Was. Right." Ron said slowly, as though to a dense toddler.

"Not very surprising, is it?"

* * *

"You lot've been talking about me?"

* * *

"Course we have." A roll of the eyes.

"With you brooding up here? We had to find something to do;

Hermione vetoed a camping trip."

* * *

"Funny." Harry sunk his head down in a moan.

"Right amusing. Let me get back to 'brooding' in peace."

* * *

Ron whistled before standing up. "Fine, be annoying.

OI! GIN! Your turn."

* * *

Harry winced and whipped his head up. "Wait Ron, wha–"

but his best mate was already exchanging places with a petite, stormy redhead.

"You were listening at the door? Seriously?"

* * *

Ron scoffed before calling back. "Obviously!

It's like you've never been at the Burrow bef–"

The slamming door cut off the rest of his statement.

* * *

Harry met Ginny's glare and swallowed nervously.

He tried not to focus on her hair

(a bit tangled, but shampooed and bright and glowing)

which was far more fiery than he remembered.

* * *

He blinked rapidly, shifting his gaze away to the

'not-quite-as-numb-skullingly-blinding' orange.

Her stare softened.

* * *

"It's not all bad, you know." Her voice was hushed,

mercifully soft. "Being human."

* * *

"I know." He felt the blanket slide as she sat down,

not quite touching him. (Once upon a time

he'd shouted and raged against being just that.

Strange how he wanted to laugh)

"Just a, a surprise."

* * *

"By 'surprise', you mean a stranger than fiction, life altering shock?"

He didn't answer.

She scooted closer, making the gap between them disappear.

"It is all your senses?" She continued, concern ringing her tone.

* * *

"Kind of, not that straight-forward."

At least that was one thing that would never change:

uncomfortableness with talking about emotions.

He shook his head, keeping his gaze turned away.

"Here to drag me out into the world?"

* * *

"Yup. Going to cooperate?"

"Nope."

He could practically feel her eyes narrow.

"You're missing my bat-bogey hex, then."

* * *

"Not going to work, Gin."

"Ginny. Gin-ny. My name's already shortened!"

"Your brothers call you it." He shrugged, enjoying the small banter.

* * *

"My brothers are lazy and can't get a hint."

She paused. "Anyway, you're not like a brother.

Revolting thought, that."

* * *

For the first time in ages, he felt his lips quirk in a smile.

"Thank god; look at what incest did to the Malfoys."

* * *

She squealed in horror, his grin slipped a bit.

"Oh hell, the pictures! Now it's in my head.

No, you aren't my brother, you bloody git!"

* * *

"Your ex then?" Their smiles had both become forced.

"So, why are you up here?"

* * *

"Christ, you can be dense." She said tightly, highly unamused.

"Even if we were just friends I'd still be up here.

But we both know it's more than that:

did you miss me slipping into your bed?"

* * *

There was a squawk, bang, and muffled shouts from outside the door.

* * *

So the days passed. Wizarding Britain moved on

and those at the centre of the war stuck close to the Burrow.

Visitors were turned away by Hermione's legalese and Mrs. Weasley's threats,

all thoughts on rewards or Hogwarts or jobs or life and a possible future

were put on hold.

It was a lazy summer, for a time. But luck had never been on their side.

* * *

For when everything was boiled down,

Harry Potter had not had a nice life.

* * *

There were very pleasant points to it, but more often than not

the happy balloon in his stomach was burst by one thing or another.

And now that his mind had decided to turn the memories upside down,

a few lights were being turned on.

* * *

When he recalled the Dursleys he'd had to rush from dinner.

Thrown up in the bathroom, lost his appetite for a week,

ignored the pounding on the door from Percy of all people,

and knew there'd be no more sneaking into empty broom cupboards with Ginny.

* * *

That is

if she and he got back together,

if Hogwarts reopened,

if he could even face going back to the castle.

* * *

Because his relatives (even with eleven and some years

of lies, thrown swears, thrown cutlery, bullying, neglect, starvation, hate,

abuseabuseabuse) was almost easier to face than that.

* * *

It wasn't only the Final Battle. That was the least of it.

* * *

It was of the happy glow as Ron explained Quidditch

(oblivious to the mark on his nose)

of a blasting, painful scar,

the jeers and shrieks of every person around,

of flyingflyingflying where he could soar, escape and race, go just go–

the troll beneath him, roars echoing off the porcelain

(please let them be okay, his new friendsfriendsfriends),

reflections of a family he didn't dare to miss,

spilled and slurped unicorn blood as the forest howled,

of the Trio, together and always

(only two of whom realised that from the start.

"All – all three of us?"),

an offer he'd never take but forever crave,

and Quirinus Quirrel disintegrating into gravel at his touch.

* * *

Ron and Hermione didn't ask why their best friend

(after a night of tossing, turning,

reevaluating the start of everything)

bolted into breakfast and hugged the life out of them.

* * *

The Weasleys would never mention the tears streaming down their faces.

* * *

Remembering did have one other silver lining,

for it brought a determination that Teddy would never (evereverever)

feel any of that. Would never doubt he was loved,

never be scared to ask questions,

never be lacking in hugs,

never be surprised to get presents,

never doubt that he was wanted,

and would always have more homes than he knew what to do with.

* * *

A trip was in order.

It ended up being a group who went calling

(he had a feeling their presence had more to do

with him than Teddy, but was too wary of the girls to question it).

Mrs. Tonks was in her element bustling around for biscuits

("Call me Andy, dear, anything else is too formal.

No? Humph, Gryffindor stubbornness. I'll wear you down soon enough!

At least Andromeda, 'Mrs. Tonks' was my mother.").

* * *

She had more lines than he remembered,

had no resemblance to her sister any longer.

For Lestrange would have never looked torn between joy and tears

while bouncing a turquoise-haired baby on her lap.

* * *

Hermione gently adjusted how he held Teddy,

but said that at least he wasn't about to drop the poor soul

(sending a glare at a sheepish Ron as she did so;

Mrs. Tonks thanked heavens above for Ginny's chasing instincts

and remarkable catch).

He was unsure, he was nervous,

he outright panicked when the little boy began crying (dear Merlin,

so loud! Was he hungry? Sleepy? Hurt? What was he supposed to do?!),

but when Teddy blinked up at him with green eyes

he found that he never wanted to leave.

* * *

Thankfully, he was welcome back anytime.

Mrs. Tonks wanted to raise him (he wouldn't disagree

with her holding tight to the family she had left),

but wished for his godfather to be part of his life.

* * *

By the end of the visit he was flying a gleeful Teddy in his arms like a pro.

Absently, he wondered if Mrs. Tonks, Hermione,

Ginny or Mrs. Weasley would take his head off

if he bought him a toy broomstick for his first birthday.

* * *

He didn't see Ginny look at him with shining eyes.

* * *

Then they were off,

and if Mrs. Tonks gazed at the floo a moment too long, what did it matter.

* * *

The Burrow was hardly quiet.

Though George shut himself up in his (only his) shop,

the place was bustling with constant company.

He used his Cloak often to avoid meeting

with anyone sent from Hogwarts or the Ministry.

* * *

He didn't want to think about NEWTs or jobs;

he wasn't as sure as he'd been just a month ago,

was uncertain about what to do with an unexpected future.

* * *

He expected the Weasleys to help George

and for Hermione to take the first flight out to her parents,

but instead the four of them sat, laughing and crying,

diving for quaffles, digging out ancient chess sets,

sending owl after owl to old friends.

* * *

And it started to get better.

Acting like a teen, his head began to get straight

and the monster in his chest again paced and growled.

It was a shame that the next burst of memories drew this to a halt.

* * *

The recollections of second and third years morphed, swarming together

(of fearing fear, the Grim, a skeleton hand clenching onto his being,

the person he'd been running from becoming his dad–or close, at least–

and Ginny was too pale, too still; what did the snake matter if she was gone?

Christ, how long had he loved her?)

Old terrors swelled up with every failed silver spell; the happy thoughts were there but weak

(meeting Dobby, Lockhart's lunacy,

flying flying flying–falling,

still, surviving and hurtling to the next adventure,

Hermione bugging over homework, hocus pocus,

Ron's and his antics with McGonagall's furiously thin mouth,

singing Valentine card, Trelawney's fatalism,

Fawkes' rescue, Lupin's howl,

the sight of Prongs with everything coming together at last

–all gave way under her scream scream scream

where he couldn't tell which redhead had perished).

* * *

He wouldn't let go of Ginny that afternoon.

* * *

She, seeing the old nightmare in his eyes,

moved them towards the couch-

glaring at any sibling who dared twitch.

* * *

Hermione came to him soon after,

clutching a notebook as though it was all she had.

He thought she'd be after him to visit the Ministry,

send back any of the urgent letters Kingsley sent,

get back into life, into reconstruction, into the world.

* * *

He had his counterargument at the tip of his tongue

("I'm recovering. Still out of it; not ready for the press or,

dear Merlin, _politics_. I am getting out, don't worry.

I'm over nearly everyday seeing Teddy and Andromeda,

or helping George clean out the shop.

It's more than enough, can't you see?")

when he noticed that Ron was at her side, petrified.

"Australia's postponed," she shook more than said,

"it's–I just realised–"

* * *

"What?" The different topic took him by surprise and

he couldn't imagine why she seemed a moment from breaking down–

why fetching her true family was more than she could handle.

Nor why Ron was grasping her shoulder in support

(both looked like they were about to collapse).

* * *

"The horcruxes." Hermione said in barely a whisper.

"They, they all had defences against, against being destroyed.

Playing with our memories, our fears–

Harry I, I think yours shifted our thoughts."

* * *

He let her explanation wash over him; leaned against the wall for support.

For months they'd been stuck on what objects were enchanted

and how the curses could be banished.

But they'd known, known for years,

and _that_ was why Dumbledore hadn't left more hints–

it had been too obvious.

He'd recognised the connection from first year,

knew about horcruxes from the fifth,

and nowhere along the way did those two thoughts cross.

* * *

But they all should have known.

He should have remembered the ebbing feel of the fang in his clutch,

the burst of inky blood as the diary howled and unraveled,

pages flying as Tom Riddle screamed and screamed and screamed.

* * *

He should have. They all should have!

* * *

But only Ron had; separated from Harry at Hogwarts,

the 'epiphany' had come like a lightning bolt.

Basilisk venom: go straight to the source.

* * *

The horcrux had always been fighting,

swaying their thoughts away from curiosity

without anyone the wiser. It took a direct explanation

("There was a reason Harry could speak with snakes.

There was a reason he could look into Lord Voldemort's mind")

for his eyes to be opened.

* * *

Hermione was crying.

As he stepped forward to comfort her, his knees gave out.

It took a moment to realise

that all three of them were crouched, hugging,

sobbing on the floor.

* * *

Fourth year? The fourth came as a whimper, not a bang.

Ron was hurt and confused when he brushed him off,

though with a whisper from Hermione it turned to guilt.

He tried to bring himself to care; this failed

for his thoughts were already too full of dragons, grindylows,

accusing rumours, Dark Marks glowing out bright and deathly green,

halted crushes, unforgiveable words

(Is that what it looked like? A flash of light,

falling over, life disapparating without a mark.

Hagrid must have been horrified),

soaring matches and glinting snitches,

a riddle, two riddles, so many creatures he'd never want to kiss and––

* * *

He tried to forget this one.

Block it from his mind, forget the terror

of ropes binding him, the rat's pasty face, of the unseeing Cedric staring at him.

In contrast the hot, pricking gash along his arm

and spiking knifes up and down his skin, were almost easy to handle.

* * *

Let it drown. Let it drown. _Let it fucking drown!_

It's been past an hour,

its gone, it won't come back.

* * *

He was silent that night during dinner, barely ate before rushing back upstairs.

Not 'rushed'; the walk was a daze, and he never noticed

his friends following his footsteps, there to support him if he stumbled.

* * *

Hermione started her 'pep talks' after this,

for she knew the horror of the start and how the worst was yet to come.

Ron was more nervous than both of them combined

and it was this that made the dark-haired boy halt.

* * *

For it wasn't like his memories weren't there.

He knew about the dementors, Umbridge,

of being 'the-boy-who-lied', and Sirius' fall: how much worse could it be?

Ron and Hermione couldn't meet his eyes when he asked.

But, it turns out they were all wrong.

* * *

He collapsed when it finally happened,

like a bludgeoning curse piercing his stomach.

Ginny screamed and George raced down just in time to steady the Firebolt.

They made it safely to ground

(he'd still won: the Snitch was later found trapped in his hoodie),

Ron grabbed his shoulders,

pulling him up to limp back to the Burrow.

* * *

He couldn't explain, could barely breathe.

All the worried siblings heard was one rattling word:

"_Du-Dumbledore_."

* * *

George cursed up a fury, but was no competition for Ginny.

Hermione striped her face with white, nervous finger marks within five minutes,

and Ron was so busy keeping his brother from collapsing

from the weight of both his fifth and sixth years at Hogwarts.

* * *

He didn't sleep that night.

Mrs. Weasley, biting her lip in worry, had offered dreamless sleep.

It was a miracle she hadn't dosed his tea

(maybe just a hint of calming potion for everyone, it hardly mattered),

considering the five quilts she'd tucked him in with.

He'd been about to throw them off,

but stopped protesting when he saw her tearful face.

* * *

He didn't want to mention that he felt (enclosed beneath the tight cloth,

and he'd never liked being trapped) like he was on fire.

Knowing them, it'd mean another trip to hospital.

And for now? For now, he had enough on his mind.

Because everyone's suspicions were wrong.

* * *

True, the deaths hurt like an open wound,

but they weren't why he laid awake (staring at the too-orange ceiling,

trying to cushion the quilts around his ears from Ron's ricocheting snoring).

It was simple before. He'd loved Sirius, and then he was gone.

Poof, vanished into everything and nothing,

and became just another photograph in his album.

But now? He remembered differently

(_"You are - truly your father's son, Harry…"_

_"…you look so like your father. Except your eyes."_

_"The risk would've been what what made it fun for James."_

_"…confused about whether you're you or your father…"_

_"You're a lot less like your father than I thought."_).

Disappointment. Lost expectations.

Because Sirius had spent twelve years in Azkaban,

wanted his best mate and not a son.

Because, because he'd never really wanted to be a dad.

* * *

And maybe (this thought haunted him most of all,

fingers nettling the blaring Gryffindor patterns on the quilt),

it wouldn't have made a difference if Sirius hadn't gone after Pettigrew.

Escaping with him on Buckbeak?

Capturing the rat and holding a trial?

Adoption? Stupid thoughts, all of them.

* * *

He shook his head, ignoring the wetness on his cheeks.

Ridiculous of him to even consider:

Sirius wouldn't have wanted any of those things and, besides,

Dumbledore wouldn't have stood for it.

* * *

Now the Headmaster…and he didn't want to think about this.

Pulled his eyes shut, refusing to dwell on the mess of the Dursleys,

blood protection, emerald inked 'Cupboard Under the Stairs',

the naive proclamation of 'Dumbledore's man through and through'

(Because maybe he still was? The man wasn't infallible and,

even with the first and last years –_"like a pig for slaughter"–_

he wasn't an evil mastermind.

Though manipulative and cunning? Caring more about the Greater Good than him?

Or worst of all: a good man who made mistake after mistake after mistake.

For there was no one to blame, after all).

* * *

A guilty weight plummeted; thinking ill of the dead wasn't a thing to condone.

By muddling his frantic thoughts it didn't even make him feel better.

But at least this diverted him from the crushing panic of dementors,

sneering students, blood quills, and the feel of _crucio_ on his tongue.

* * *

The only other thought? _GinnyGinnyGinny_. And this? Her?

She was why he couldn't sleep.

* * *

Because, Christ, how had he missed her?

Missed the blasted 'monster in his chest' for not months or years, but ages.

But that was hardly the worst–he'd missed _her_.

The way she stared as though not recognising him,

her whispered 'Tom's and flinching at his touch.

Sixth year had only escalated this (oh god, what'd he done?),

and he never noticed. Never had a clue.

* * *

He confronted her the next morning,

(blaring light in his eyes, apology on his lips).

She'd kissed him before he could get out a word,

tugging them outside while he was still shell-shocked.

They lay on the pitch in the backyard, staring at the sun.

* * *

She explained.

One dainty hand twirled patterns in the glass,

her other never left his.

* * *

She hadn't been sure.

A suspicion, nothing more, of recognising the diary in him.

Of fear, guilt, and bundling her emotions and little girl crush away;

wanting nothing more than to escape

to be gonegone_Gone_.

* * *

She'd never liked the hero.

The brazen knight saving damsels left and right,

not giving a damn about his own life

or how he made those close to him cry.

Just the 'saving people' thing. That was it.

And it hadn't been enough, because it was sososo easy to lose.

* * *

Ginny paused, closed her eyes.

Her face scrunched in, expecting justified protests:

of 'How could you?' and 'Was anything real?'

He didn't say a word. His gaze stayed on the swaying clouds.

* * *

She angrily brushed away her tears. Fingers left the grass.

"I, I was screwed up. Still am. I'm so sorry!

I tried to stay away so I'd only be Ron's kid sister,

but then you were kissing me and I just–"

* * *

"Do you love me?"

Because he'd figured it out in the end. Took long enough.

But something about this sunny day,

chill breeze wrapping around them, Ginny's hesitating form…

* * *

The _one thing_ he couldn't see? It had always been what he'd missed

(couldn't clutch, couldn't unravel, never stormed in his chest like a monster).

It wasn't the 'power he knows not'; had no room in the Department of Mysteries.

Nothing so superfluous.

It was, instead, the smell of her flowery shampoo.

The scent of broomstick polish about her fingers.

A faint whiff of treacle tart in her breath.

* * *

"I–" she shifted her head, meeting his lily-pad green eyes.

She sighed, "–yes, of course I love you.

Always have. That was the dratted problem."

* * *

"I was screwed up, still am. I'm so sorry for not seeing you."

He twisted slightly, pulling her into a hug,

happy just to feel her soft hair on his skin.

"And, turns out, I hate being the unthinking hero.

Definitely not fun; right headache, actually."

* * *

She gave a small sniffle of a laugh.

* * *

"On top of that," he kissed the edge of her hairline,

(pressing against a new paperthin though lengthy scar),

"I love you. Always have. I've just been magically oblivious."

* * *

"Funny how that works." She curled up to him,

resting her head on the curve of his shoulder.

"Two peas in a pod, aren't we."

* * *

"Worst things to be." He grinned boyishly,

for once not caring that the light and colours hit him like a rampaging hippogriff.

"So. What would a not-princess and a not-hero get up to?"

* * *

"Living sounds brilliant."

* * *

"It does." He shifted to meet her glowing eyes.

"I like your earlier idea. Of flying, soaring,

going somewhere unknown?"

* * *

"Going going gone?" She gave a half-sobbing giggle.

"What with the funerals, rebuilding, panic attacks:

yes, perfect time to go."

* * *

"Finding a new story."

He–for the first time in years–relaxed.

"Us, your family, Teddy, Andy, Hermione and the library that'll come with her…"

* * *

Their smiles burst into giddy laughter.

Within a moment they were rolling in the lawn,

not thinking, not caring––being.

* * *

It only paused when he found her pressed against him

(both shaking in excitement,

dreaming of whatever lay over the horizon),

saw that her pink lips seemed rather too empty,

and didn't bother resurfacing for air.

* * *

Interestingly, remembering the past year was almost a relief.

It marked the conclusion and, thankfully, it wasn't as bad as the rest.

He should have guessed: he'd been in close proximity with other horcruxes for the majority

so most of the months remained a blur of pain and numbing cold.

* * *

Ron and Hermione agreed when questioned

(both grinned in seeing him carrying the petite redhead–

Ginny refused to let him loose from a hug),

though neither had such a harsh effect

and were surprised he'd felt the locket's chiming heartbeat

(Ron was appalled at the suggestion he'd known otherwise.

"What? I meant that it was cold like a dementor!

A heartbeat? Blimey mate, only you.").

* * *

Oddly, he felt it was lucky he'd still had a horcrux

("Not a proper horcrux." Hermione had tearfully told him.

"A, a bit of soul, I think, but not that.

There was no ritual done. That's probably why it wasn't even worse".)

during the battle. The deaths seemed unreal and, even in focusing,

he couldn't quite grasp any of the scenes.

It was as though they'd rushed by in a whirl,

never stopping long enough for him to pick up the pieces.

* * *

But then? Then, he had paused.

* * *

After the war, after the hallow relief

(Of catching the Elder Wand as easily as the Golden Snitch,

watching him fall without a whimper or mark.

Oh. Wait.

So that's how it looked),

frantic victory entangled with exhaustion.

Of waking up by Ginny

and seeing.

* * *

Of breathing.

The strangled words and moments coming up

in a whirl of colours, brightness, tears, laughter:

of life.

* * *

Of flying off to nowhere and every single place imaginable

(McGonagall would be proud),

with the family he'd recognised at last.

Because maybe Ron had been right

and the Mirror of Erised could, in fact, show the future.

* * *

So long as one didn't dwell on dreams

and lived to create their own.

* * *

He was–atlastatlastatlast–seeing, and maybe

(yes, he could admit it), he'd always been a bit blind.

More than 'a bit'. Though it didn't matter, not really.

For who cared what had happened before?

He had never dwelt on the past,

and though this wasn't entirely his fault

it was too good of a habit to break.

* * *

Thus, it was quiet.

The colours became manageable

and the genuine laughs and chirps grew everyday

(for George had retaken to transforming everyone into canaries.

Harry figured they all had their coping methods),

and it dawned on him

that he had months, years … ages for it all to be well.

* * *

But for now?

For now he'd pull Teddy's small form close,

smile as his sleepy snores mixed with Ginny's napping sighs;

her head resting on his shoulder,

rumpled red hair falling onto too thin cheekbones.

* * *

He leaned against her.

Let everything go, and closed his eyes.

* * *

For it was like someone else's life.

* * *

**A/N:** I've always been bothered by two canon plot holes: Harry wasn't effected by the horrible things happening to him, and the scar horcrux never significantly altered the hero's inherent being. Both issues can be 'solved' by taking into account that it's a children's series, but (using a bit of creative license) the two problems can also cancel each other out.

My version of the scar horcrux dulled most things: light, dark, pain, love, colours, sounds, etc. Oddly, if this _was _canon, it'd take care of most other plot holes. With this theory, Harry had been slowly falling for Ginny over the years, but only noticed when the feelings became enormous–hence the sudden onset of the 'monster in his chest'. On the other hand, Harry shouldn't have been able to 'shrug off' some pretty horrific trauma: the Dursleys' abuse, his first 'kill' at age 11, and many of his loved ones' deaths. Plus, the horcrux could explain a bunch of contradictions: Harry has wretched eyesight but is a fantastic seeker, he's terrible at interpreting girls but great at solving problems, and can do advanced magic while having trouble with simple spells.

That was the 'simple' explanation to my weird theory. Now, if you want your head to explode, read on to this next bit. Instead of Harry Potter being a solely benevolent person like Hutcheson applauded, shouldn't he be like everyone else and show Mandevillian selfishness?

…and that probably made zero sense. Sorry, historical theory lectures and my dissertation are making my thoughts go _kablooey_. Basically, the problem is that Harry's personality from books 1-7 represented the ideology of Francis Hutcheson to a tea. This guy believed in an 'internal moral compass': that morality is instinctive, benevolent, innate in a way differing from Locke's tabula rasa (that we're all 'blank slates' until our experiences form our personalities)–and since one's moral sense can transcend physical senses, the former can't be corrupted. The issue with this? Harry followed Hutcheson's ideas of morality perfectly, which is a far too optimistic view of humanity. Not that I'm saying we should jump on board with Hobbes' pessimism, but I prefer a middle ground. This is where we come to Mandeville, who argued that humanity is not only selfish, but that this is a _good_ thing. For when we all embrace our self-interested, prideful, envious, arrogant, and Slytherin natures, everyone's motived/challenged to go the extra step, which is absolutely brilliant for society. Innovation! Entrepreneurship! Competition! Economy! And all from a little bit of selfishness. In Mandeville's theory, though you can be a good person you are never without motivations. Though, Rousseau would argue that the best point of mankind was pre-societal man in a state of nature (Harry pre-horcrux? Then returning to a Rousseauean utopia following his resurrection and the effective collapse of British wizarding society? The 'Jesus figure' theory has nothing on me!), so technically all of this would be bunk–but that's going off on a tangent within this philosophical mess of a tangent.

Back to Mandeville's theory of selfishness being good: _this_ is widely reflected in J.K. Rowling's writing (as is done by anyone who creates rounded characters). Hermione craved equality and knowledge, Ron desired family and acknowledgement, the twins worked towards creative innovation, Dumbles strove–through projection–to right his past wrongs, and even Voldy (amidst insanity) fought for a world order where he would never be neglected or passed over again. In fact, almost every character exhibited this…

Except for Harry Freaking Potter. Who exhibited next to no thoughts of vengeance, ambition, future hopes, past regrets, or present horror. He was numb; a person fuelled solely by their internal moral compass, noble recklessness, and the aptly put 'saving-people-thing'. That's not human. It's not! It's a wistful caricature of a protagonist.

So I made Harry's ambition be the ultimate escapism for a white knight in shining armour: falling in love, having a family, and happily flying away from the adventures.


End file.
